Son’s Words at His Father’s Funeral

A son will speak at his father’s funeral, and he will know how well he can control his emotions.

Aurelius Kadzius

I stood up at the table of relatives I had not seen in years and friends of his I had not spoken to since I was a boy. 

Their eyes were on me as I was positioned in the center of a long table, as they all settled into their chairs and some rounded up their kids. It was my duty and honor as his only son to begin addressing all who showed up to remember my father. 

Just prior, we had laid his ashes to rest. It was also my first time being involved in the Roman Catholic ceremony of the priest saying the blessing for my father’s soul as he tossed blessed water over my father’s ern before the burial. The priest blessed the ground we placed the ashes into. 

The ceremony was elaborate; it was my father’s request of me, so it was done. On the spot where his ashes lay, there was a mound covered with white flowers from everyone. Traditionally, the closest relative lay the first flower over his ashes. So that was what I did.

It seems trivial, like who will notice or judge if you are a blubbering emotional idiot who cannot string a sentence together for your father’s sake? It isn’t because it was not trivial to those who showed up, and there were many of his family and men there who grew up as he did to pay their respects.

Men of hard-lived lives, men who served in the Soviet Army during the Afghan war, the real Cold War kids who grew up alongside my dad from young teens and kids’ homes, and street gangs of that era were there. 

They didn’t say much to me; they walked up, shook my hand, looked me in the eye, said they would miss him, and were sorry. Looking them in the eyes, I saw they were doing all they could to keep their composer same as I. 

Some things are meant for those who were there. Some of my words resonated with some, and I ensured those who wanted to speak had the floor to share a memory or words about him. 

We sat there as tears welled up and smiled as the anecdotes of his life were shared, breaking up the pain in our hearts for a moment.

It was good, and it hurt; regardless, it was still so good and beautiful to hear and share it.